Made to Pay
by Johan - Master of the Quill
Summary: Same old story. Dwight gets betrayed and someone tries to turn him into charcoal. Naturally, he's pretty pissed about that. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer **- Frank Miller owns all of the Sin City universe and all it's characters.

This is my first stab at a Sin City fan fic. I noticed that there really are not as many as there should be so I might as well write one. R&R please.**

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**Made to Pay**

**By James Bland**

My breathing is like a great dane's. It's slower than a normal dog's, but louder too. The taste of dead flesh fills the air like a rancid fart. My face is covered in splatters of blood like oil on a mechanics shirt. Beneath me, Antonio Marchese is strewn across the concrete of an underground car park, his head looks like a bloody autopsy. He made me do it. If hadn't fought back, it would have been quick, mostly painless. If only he hadn't wrestled the blade out of my hand, if only he hadn't spotted my blazing eyes in the window of his car, if only he hadn't tried to stab me with his car keys, then I wouldn't of had to rip the side mirror out of its socket and bludgeon his head in with it, over and over and over again. He just wouldn't stop breathing, you see, wouldn't stop sitting up for more, more pain.

Amazing what a man will do to save his own skin, take the pain, cling on to life, just so he can see his kids again. But a man can only take so much and there's no limit to what I can give. Now I'm standing over his body, I've just killed a man I didn't even know, a man I never even knew existed till this morning. How far have I fallen?

"Nice work, Dwight", an all too familiar voice says behind my back.

"Manny"? I say, turning to face the old fucker. He holds a cigarette in his right hand and it occurs to me I've never seen him without one. Maybe he thinks it makes him look cool. Maybe he's just an addict. I wipe my brow, smearing more of Antonio's blood across my forehead. "What the hell is going"?

"Nothing going on", Manny says as he approaches me, smiling a lawyer's smile, "Jesus Christ, Dwight, you're way too paranoid. It's just business as usual".

Business. Humph, business ain't a good word in Sin City. When ever someone says business, something bad's gonna happen.

Manny walks passed me, passed Antonio, passed Antonio's car. This isn't good. So why don't I just get the fuck out? Maybe that fight took more out of me than I thought it did. Maybe that blood on my forehead isn't just Antonio's blood, maybe it's my blood. Oh crap, it is my blood.

"Just business Dwight", Manny says again, stopping at the fire exit; ironic. For the first time ever, I see Manny without a cigarette. He just threw it at an oil slick that's dripped off Antonio's car. I should have spotted that oil slick. I'm off my game today; did they drug me or something?

It's like the cigarette's moving through a slideshow; just land already, kill me. Just watching it move so fucking slowly is killing me.

Finally it lands, explodes in my face. Can't see Antonio anymore. I think my back is broken too. My new face feels like it's melting off. My hair is on fire. Are my arms still in? I hope so; I like my arms, they come in handy every now and then. Next thing I know the fire's put out. My blood's all over the place, more of my blood than Antonio's; he's so burned up you'd have better luck getting a toaster to bleed.

I think I'm in a hospital. That's pretty good. That means I'm gonna live if history proves anything. Marv lived and he got shot up worse than a target in precinct 11 on 4th and 6th.

As they patch me up, the anaesthetic wares off way too fast. All I can think about is what I'm gonna do to the bastard that did this to me, and who I gotta kill to get to him. More important than that, who do I have be friends with to make the assholes burn?


	2. Chapter 2

Oh my god this hurts! This hurts more than anything I've ever felt before. It's like god just went to my face with a great big flaming hot poker, burned out my eyes, turned 'em to soup. I see a fucking thing! Oh god, what the hell happened to my face?

Now I got some doctor twittering away in my ear, telling me the facts. I don't need the facts, the statistics; I need the truth, the damn plain truth.

"What the hell happened to my face?" I ask him as he tries to mention Marchese, "why the fuck can't I see?"

"Sir, there's no medical reason", the doc says in that matter-of-fact 'I'm better than you' kind of way, "merely precautionary bandages; standard procedure for this kind of injury."

I grab his arm. Instincts taken over; can't see this dickhead's arm, but I just grabbed it. "What kind of injury?"

"Sir, your entire face, and most of you're body, received severe burning," he tells me, and I can sense the fear rising in him, "it's a miracle you're sill alive."

I nearly break his arm, but I let him go. I can hear him move to the end of bed, he's spooked but he's got something else to say.

"One more thing, Dwight, the cops are on their way, and word on the street is, you're going down for a long long time."

My name, he knows my fucking name. He leaves before I can do much else. No one can see my face, but I've never been more pissed off than I am today. Somebody sold me out big time. Probably Manny, or whoever that old fucker's working for, or maybe someone else, someone close to me, someone I thought I could trust.

Fuck this; I'm getting the hell out of here. I peel the bandages of my face, feels like it takes a life time. Thank fuck: I can see! I look at my hands. Jesus Christ, that surgeon did a damn good job. Looks like they should have been blown clean off. I never thought I'd be so happy some guy invented stitches. I avoid looking at my face, but can't stop myself catching a glimpse in my bed pan on the floor. I didn't get everything; I just know I don't look like me anymore.

I get out of my bed and stumble over to the door, dragging my drip with me. The hallway's empty, that's pretty good. Hey, a window's open, that's pretty good too. I leave my drip behind me and try to get the window. Then I realise: you stupid fuck, this is a trap!

I see the sniper in the other wing of the hospital staring straight at me. I duck just as a bullet narrowly removes my skull from my head. Ok, ok. What now. Think you fucking retard! Did that blast turn you into a moron or something? Stop it, this ain't getting me no where. Just pick a place to move, any place. A spot that won't get me killed.

I run, from one end of the hall to the other. Well, I say run, it's more like a gorilla limping. I take cover behind some machine, he can't get me here. That guy in the other wing is a novice anyway. He must of unloaded 4 bullets, each missed me by miles. So they gave a novice a sniper rifle, eh. Then the sniper can't be their only option. It's not only their option.

Two fat guys with shotguns appear at the other end of the hall, each with huge magnum; and they're walking to me. They fire!

This machine turns out to be good cover, a couple a crappy surges spook me a little but I'm ok. I've got to move! These fat guys'll be right by me any second. So I gorilla limp again down the next hallway. The novice can see me again but 4 more bullets and he's still as shit as last time. This hallway's empty too. These bastards must have cleaned out this entire floor all for me. I'm flattered.

I might as well fuck up they're one floor plan. I jump out the window and break my collar bone in the car park, but I got to keep moving. Even that novice can hit me if I'm just lying on the ground like a rag doll. So I fight the pain and hot wire the nearest rust bucket.

Those two fat guys have spotted me now. They're better from long range with those magnums than that novice is with a sniper rifle but I don't get hit.

So now I'm out of there. There's only one place I can go when I'm as deep in shit as I am right now. I've got to get an appointment for the girls of Old Town…


End file.
